Place Your Bets
by OccasionallyCreative
Summary: Three casinos, one night? Sherlock Holmes has had worse.
1. Good Behaviour

_**Author's Note:** Although I really can't afford to have another WIP, this one was too tempting. If it wasn't obvious, this is based upon the 2001 film, "Ocean's Eleven"._

_Obviously, characters do not belong to me. Which is a pity, because if I did, Sherlolly would've been canon by now._

_Unbeta'd, so any mistakes are mine. Forgive me._

* * *

The bar was not one he would have expected to find Mike Stamford in. It was small; dingy almost. A thin layer of dust stuck to the surfaces and any patrons sat inside the place were either asleep or falling asleep with a bottle in their hand. With a slight groan, Sherlock slipped onto one of the bar stools and watched as Mike Stamford caught his eye and gave a sigh before he fixed a falsely genial smile onto his features and stepped towards him.

"Good evening Mike," Sherlock said, voice low but his tone bright. Mike's hands stilled against the glass he was cleaning, and his eyes flickered with panic. When he spoke however, he was nothing but calm.

"Sorry mate. My name's Stephen." He tapped against the lapels of his waistcoat, where his name was embroidered on in lurid green thread.

"Ah yes," Sherlock said as he made an elaborate show of double-checking it before he directed an apologetic grin at 'Stephen'. "My mistake. I'll have a Scotch."

'Stephen' turned away, his shoulders sinking with relief. Sherlock watched, amused, as he prepared the drink and placed in front of him. Although some weight had been gained, five years hadn't really caused any major shift in Mike Stamford. He still possessed the same bland charm, that same 'married-with-two-kids' look which allowed him access into anywhere he wished. People were far too trusting of a blank face, and Stamford used that to his advantage.

"Lost in your thoughts again?"

He almost choked on his drink. What on earth was _she_ doing here? She didn't _know_ of places like this. He turned his head, but there she was, nails painted her trademark shade of crimson with both her hair and her clothing elegantly put together. She raised an eyebrow and took a glance around the darkly-lit bar.

"Never thought the day would come where I'd see you in a place like this."

"I could say the same for you," he said with a shrug and he gestured towards the stool beside him. She nodded once in acceptance and sat down, crossing her legs as she ordered herself a drink. 'Stephen', all too aware of the new arrival's identity, shook his head lightly but poured out the wine she'd ordered all the same.

"How long have you been out?" she asked, taking a sip of her wine. Sherlock glanced at his watch.

"Three hours, five minutes. The answer's no, by the way."

The woman forced herself to appear stricken. "But you don't know what I'm going to ask."

"Oh yes I do," he said with a chuckle as he took a gulp of his nearly finished Scotch. He looked to her. "I've been in prison for five years. Most people when they meet a recently released man asked what he was in for, or what he plans to do now he's out. They never ask how long he's been out. The answer is no, Miss Adler."

He gulped back the last of his drink and stood, but she wasn't ready to let him go just yet. That much was evident by the way in which she gripped at his hand; tight enough to make him pause, but not tight enough to raise any eyebrows or cause any pain. He turned back to face her.

"What makes you think I'll be good for it?"

"Because this requires planning and co-ordination and a brain," she said as she settled back on her stool, leaning against the bar. She gave a grin. "Plus, it's one of my better ideas."

He felt himself smile as he realised. "You want to rob a casino. Specifically, three."

"Very good, Mr Holmes. How did you figure it out?"

Keeping his eyes on her, he reached behind him and grabbed at the newspaper on the bar before he dropped it into her palms. She laughed at the headline splashed across the front page.

LUCK BE A LADY: TYCOON JAMES MORIARTY BUYS THIRD CASINO

"Am I that obvious?" she asked playfully.

"That ambitious," he replied, not bothering to hide his slowly widening grin. "When do you want to start?"

She raised an eyebrow, but if she was to make a remark, she quickly decided against it. Instead, she gave a shrug and flipped her hair over her shoulder. "Never."

"What?"

On seeing Sherlock's narrowed eyes, she sighed. "I already have a job going," she explained and she stepped off her stool and leaned towards him, squeezing her fingers against his upper arm. She pressed a kiss to his cheek. "This one is all yours, Mr Holmes."

That was her goodbye. He didn't watch her leave. With a sigh, he tapped at the side of his glass. 'Stephen' quietly refilled it.

"You don't happen to know where Mr Watson could be found," Sherlock said absentmindedly as he sipped at the warm amber liquid. "Do you?"

"I'm afraid I don't know anyone of that name sir," 'Stephen' lied smoothly. "And even if I did, I wouldn't know where he was."

"Might you have some inkling?" he pressed, taking another short, sharp swig of his Scotch before he reached into his pocket and took out a cigarette packet, followed by a lighter.

'Stephen' blinked in surprise. "I thought you quit."

"I got sent to jail. Difficult to maintain a smoking habit in a cell," Sherlock muttered as he put one between his lips and lit it. 'Stephen' gave another sigh. It was almost funny that he could be bothered to pretend to care about whatever smoking policy his place of work held. What was truly funny however was the way he struggled not to look as excited as a newborn at the sound of Miss Adler's offer.

It only took 'Stephen' a moment to fall away, leaving Mike Stamford standing there in his stead. He leaned forward.

"He was last seen in London, near the West End, running short cons."

"He must be bored out of his mind," Sherlock drawled as he took a drag of his cigarette. Mike hid an amused smile and shrugged.

"Perhaps. Just remember: you didn't hear anything from me."

Sherlock eyed Mike carefully and he slowly took another drag, his expression impassive. "What _possible_ information could a barman tell me?" He stood. "Thanks for the drink."

The door swung behind him as he left.

It was only a few minutes later that Mike Stamford discovered a card slipped underneath the abandoned Scotch.

_Quit your job. SH._

* * *

One haircut, one suit fitting and a train journey later, Sherlock was sat in another bar—much classier than the last one he had frequented thankfully; this one even had proper lighting—and he pinched lightly at the bridge of his nose with one hand and held a bloody tissue in the other.

"Head-butt to the face," he muttered. "A bit theatrical."

John Watson sat opposite him, flushed with rage.

"Five _bloody_ years," he hissed. "You told me you'd only be gone for two!"

"I clearly underestimated the British justice system," Sherlock said with a shrug, but John shook his head.

"Are you asking me to punch you again? What the hell do you want?"

Sherlock pressed the tissue to his nose and groaned uncomfortably as a dull pain tingled against his skin. He moved his head back to face his former friend and tried a smile. John's remaining scowl informed him that his attempt at lightening the mood had most certainly not helped.

"I'm thinking of doing a job. It'll be tricky of course, and a large crew will be needed—lots of planning too—"

He was cut off by John raising a hand. His features were twisted into an expression of utter disbelief. "Just how long have you been out of jail?"

Sherlock shrugged. "A few hours. Almost a day. Why is that important?"

John's answer was cut off by the arrival of a smiling bartender, female and wan in looks. On seeing the bloody tissue and Sherlock's equally bloody nose, she raised her eyebrows. "Can I… get you gentlemen anything?"

"A beer would be great," John said, rubbing at his temples. "Make it the strongest one you've got."

"I'll have the same," Sherlock said, and the bartender grinned before she moved away. John directed a withering look at him as soon as she was out of earshot.

"You hate beer."

"I know. Now, are you going to do this job or not? Will you help me?"

John sighed and leaned back against the leather of his chair. "Fine. I'll being roped into helping you anyway—what's the job?"

"A casino," Sherlock said as he pressed his palms together to steeple them underneath his chin. When he heard John give the inevitable splutter of disbelief, he grinned. "Actually three."

"_Three?_ You've gone mad. That isn't possible."

"Actually, it is—if you're hitting the right venues of course. To be specific; the Bellagio, the MGM Grand and the Mirage—"

"You _have_ gone mad."

"All of their takings are dropped off in the same vault; the Bellagio vault."

"Which is known to be the least accessible vault ever built!" John said impatiently, sitting forward. "Sherlock, this can't—"

"Two beers, as requested!" the bartender said brightly as she set them down on the table. John sat back and fumed as Sherlock brightly thanked her and pressed a crisp twenty pound note into her hand before he subtly waved her away. John rolled his eyes and made a grab for the beer bottle in front of him.

"You can't rob those casinos Sherlock," he said, taking a swig from the bottle in his hand and shaking his head. "You just can't."

"I can, and I will. Whether or not you join me is entirely up to you." With that, he wiped the remaining blood from his face, stood up and departed from the bar. It was with a growing smirk that he counted down in his head.

4…

He'd be fidgeting, perhaps mumbling under his breath about the stupidity of it all.

3…

He'd glance at the two beer bottles and the bloody tissue. Wryly smile.

2…

He'd swear loudly—a whispered "shit," sounded behind him—and he'd jump up.

1…

"This had better work, so help me God," John muttered as he fell into step with Sherlock, who grinned wider as they stepped out onto the bustling London streets. It was when they got a short distance away from the bar that John spoke again.

"Who gave you this idea anyway?"

"Irene Adler. She suggested it to me soon after my release," Sherlock said as he stepped forward and waved down a cab. When he opened the door to climb inside however, he found that John had come to a halt and was looking at Sherlock with his trademarked look of _you utter bastard._

Sherlock gave a small nonchalant shrug and stepped inside the cab, only to be quickly followed on by John.

"The Diogenes Club," Sherlock said to the taxi driver, who nodded once and pulled away. Sherlock chuckled to himself and settled against the seat, watching the London scenery flit past. Five years had been far too long. Once this particular job was done, he decided, he would have to come back to London. Get to know it again—

"Please tell me this isn't about her," John said, pulling him from his thoughts. Sherlock narrowed his eyes at him before he broke into a smile.

"Of course it isn't. What on Earth gave you that idea?"

John rolled his eyes again and tapped rhythmically against his knee. Five years hadn't changed Sherlock Holmes one bit.

He silently thanked God for that.


	2. The Financer

The panel was nothing special; a row of well-suited, cynical parole board officials. The woman in the middle—dark haired; married with one child—gave one small nod in greeting and gestured to the chair. When he chose to settle himself there, she crossed her arms and leaned towards him.

"Good morning." He didn't respond. Eyebrow raised, she tried again. Her voice was firmer this time. "Mr Holmes. Good morning."

Sherlock blinked once and cleared his throat, sweeping his fingers through his curls. "Yes, good morning."

"Thank you." The woman glanced dispassionately down at the folder in front of her as her colleagues sat with their pens poised over the pages of their notebooks. "Mr Holmes," she began, "the purpose of this hearing is to determine—"

"If I'll break the law again if you agree to my release. I know."

"Very well. This was your first conviction, but you have been implicated—yet never charged—in a dozen other confidence schemes and frauds." She lifted her head to look at him, false curiosity in her eyes. "What do you say to this?"

"I was never charged," Sherlock echoed, focusing his gaze on the man beside the woman. About mid-30s, he was wiry with black, combed-back hair. Married, with a mistress. Sherlock took a sweeping gaze over the rest of the parole board, and almost chuckled. Every single one of them was married. Perhaps that was fate's idea of a cruel joke.

"Mr Holmes," the wiry man said. "We are trying to find out if there was a reason for you to commit this crime or if there was a reason that you just got _caught_ this time."

Sherlock shifted slightly in his seat. He gave a shrug. "My wife left me. Naturally I fell into a somewhat self-destructive pattern."

"Naturally?" a blonde woman—late 50s, plastic surgery addict—asked.

"I loved my wife," he said, almost casually. He leaned back in the chair. "Of course I got upset."

"If released, is it likely that you'd fall back into a similar pattern?" the blonde woman asked, looking briefly at her notes. Sherlock eyed her carefully before he gave his answer.

"My wife has already divorced me once before. I don't believe she's _so_ heartless as to do it again."

* * *

Sherlock walked into the Diogenes Club as if he owned the place. The patrons inside the building glared at him momentarily as he and John swept past them, but none of them complained. They were too self-absorbed to do such a thing.

As a result, Sherlock and John soon found themselves in the office of Mycroft Holmes. On the shutting of the door, the newspaper in front of Mycroft's face lowered to reveal the man's face, sunk into a deep frown. He tried for a smile as the two of them sat down.

"Good evening to you brother," he said silkily. "To what do I owe this pleasure?"

"Can't a man visit his brother after five years away?"

"You never made social calls before you went to prison, Sherlock—I doubt you'd start doing it now."

John rolled his eyes. "Alright, girls, calm down. Mycroft, we need your help."

Mycroft touched his fingers together and his eyebrows slowly rose.

"Really? I suppose by help, you mean money." He looked to his brother again, sniffing slightly. "You're planning a con. You've got that look again."

"What look?" Sherlock asked quickly, sitting up. "I don't have a look."

"Yes you do," Mycroft said as he sighed through his nose. "Mummy calls it the 'I-know-better' look. She's wrong of course—you only _think_ you know better. What's the con?"

Sherlock crossed his hands in his lap and sat back. "I'd rather you guessed."

To this, John sighed and swore under his breath about immaturity and time constraints—all trivial concerns—whereas Mycroft shook his head. Sherlock grinned.

"Go on; it's been an age. Have a little deduction. Indulge," he added, drawling the last few syllables. Mycroft looked at him for a long, long moment before he rose to his feet and moved over to a small drinks table. Pouring out himself a whisky, he spoke.

"You're obviously not here on a social call, so it's business. However, you've only been out of jail for barely a day, so it's clearly some newly acquired business. How? Your hair has been cut, and your suit is newly tailored. You're dressing for battle. Plus, you wear the standard markers for public travel, and you have traces of lipstick on your cheek, a very particular shade which is worn by only one of our mutual acquaintances: Miss Irene Adler." Mycroft finally paused for breath and he took a sip of his drink before he spoke again. "There's only one conclusion to all that: you, dear brother, have a job lined up and you wish for me to finance it."

Sherlock made no indication of being impressed by his brother's display of intelligent observation but instead nodded to the newspaper that lay flat on Mycroft's desk.

"Look at the front. That might give you an idea of what we have in mind."

Dutifully, Mycroft moved back towards his desk and closed the newspaper. It took him a second to scan the headline and a further two seconds to deliver his opinion.

"The Bellagio, the Mirage and the MGM Grand? No, Sherlock. This is too far, too ambitious. Even for you."

"How do you know?"

Mycroft sighed and settled back into his chair, crossing his legs. He looked directly at his brother. "I know casino security better than anyone on this planet, and I know for a fact that the Bellagio vault is completely and utterly impenetrable."

"Do you have that little faith in me?"

"No. I just have that much faith in the security. I did, after all, invent it. Casinos are not places where you can simply walk in, hold up a gun, say you're robbing the place and demand a specific amount of money. Casinos have cameras in every corner, guards at every turn and locks that are designed to withstand bombs. The President of the United States is less protected than a standard casino vault, let alone the vault of the Bellagio."

Sherlock rolled his eyes as he listened to his brother speak. He sneaked a glance at John, who was watching Mycroft with a large degree of amusement. The source of their mutual mirth was obvious. Despite his insistence on bellyaching, it was widely known among by both criminals and businessmen alike that Mycroft reserved a special sort of loathing for James Moriarty, the young Irish-American upstart, and practically everyone knew that the loathing had only increased when Moriarty had—somewhat scandalously—ripped one of Mycroft's most profitable casinos from right underneath his nose.

"I don't see why you're so against the scheme," John said. "It's never been tried."

Mycroft gave a short laugh. "Never been tried? You two need to do your homework."

"We have," Sherlock said quickly.

"Do it again," Mycroft retorted, tone icy. "Many people have tried to rob casinos in the past, and many of them have failed before their plans could even take full hold. In fact, the closest someone has ever come to legitimately robbing a casino is being shot in the back in the car park of Caesars Palace in 1987. You two don't have a single hope."

There was a stone-cold silence as Sherlock and John considered his words. It was Sherlock who broke it as he quickly stood.

"Well, it seems you're right." He began to make for the door. "I couldn't possibly hope to pull it off. Good evening to you Mycroft. Must be going—lots to do!"

"Oh, for Christ's sake!" Mycroft called after him. He jumped to his feet. "I haven't technically said no yet!"

"Well, you don't seem particularly enthused about the idea," Sherlock remarked as he stepped back into the office.

"I was testing you. Surely that was obvious?" On receiving no reply from either man, Mycroft sighed heavily. "You plan to steal from James Moriarty, and if you plan on being successful, you need to know what you're doing and why you are doing it. Because if you fail—"

"Oh, let me guess, I get killed."

Mycroft nodded. "But not before he's ruined you and run you into the ground."

"Like he ruined you?" John asked with a bright grin on his face.

Mycroft frowned. "James Moriarty did not ruin me. He merely… _inconvenienced_ me."

Sherlock scoffed. "Oh please. He bought you out."

"Unfortunately so. And now he's blowing it up in order to make way for something utterly ghastly. He calls it a chain hotel." Mycroft gave a visible shudder before he gave out another, softer sigh and he pressed his palms against his desk to eyeball the two men in front of him, studying them for a few moments. A smile slowly appeared on his lips.

"You really are determined to do it," he murmured. He looked hard at his brother. "But to do this job Sherlock, and to do it well, you are going to need people who are as mad and reckless as yourself."

Sherlock grinned as he opened the office door once again. "Don't worry. We've drawn up quite the list."

"Just one quick question: what exactly is your reward for doing this?" Mycroft asked. "Aside from the money?"

"Hm?"

"If you're going to undertake a job as complicated as this, you had better be doing it for a good reason. I for one, would like to see James Moriarty's smile wiped from his face. What motivation do you have?"

Sherlock stuffed his hands into his coat pockets and tilted his head, giving his best grin. "You'll just have to wait and see, brother mine."


	3. The Hacker and The Bomber

The yellow of the flickering street lamp lighting against his features, John kicked idly at a stray Coke can and took a quick glance at the abandoned building in front of him. Squirreled away in the backstreets of London, the paint peeled from the walls to reveal reams of old brick behind it, and litter cluttered the path up to the double doors. John sighed and made a mental note to stick as closely to Sherlock as possible. It wasn't because he was scared, far from it; it was more a result of his concern. After all, a drug den wasn't exactly the healthiest of places for Sherlock Holmes to be in, especially after five years away.

Sherlock, apparently nonplussed by or ignorant of (maybe both) his friend's growing concern, stepped up to the door and knocked twice, the sound heavy against the warped wood of the door. The only response was silence, soon followed by scuffling. The door creaked open and both Sherlock and John quickly stepped inside. The person who had opened the door for them was a man, tall and skinny, most of his features hidden by the vast hood he wore over his head.

Sherlock whirled around, smirking a little. "John, wait here. I'll just go and see if I can find our expert."

John chuckled. "No, Sherlock. You are not going off on your own."

"Why not?"

"Have you forgotten where we are?"

"Not at all. We're in one of London's most prime drug dens. Remember, I did drive us here." Sherlock said as he turned to head up a flight of stairs.

"That's precisely the problem!" John called up after him. "Sherlock! You're a former drug addict!"

"Don't fuss John!" Sherlock's voice echoed down the stairwell. "Any drugs here have no doubt already been ingested!"

John sighed and shook his head. Sometimes, Sherlock's arrogant and self-assured nature really played against him, and despite being ordered not to, he still found himself fussing and he still found himself jogging up the steps after his friend.

* * *

It was when he got to the first floor that he encountered his first obstacle. He had just stepped through into a wide, open room to find old mattresses and various junk scattered about the place along with a fair few sleeping addicts—but no Sherlock.

John had sighed and turned to continue his search when the same addict who had allowed them to enter stepped in front of him, his hood now down. John wondered how on earth he'd managed to even open the door, considering how high he appeared to be. The addict looked at him for a long, long moment, his sharp blues eyes unblinking.

"Who're you?" he said thickly, swaying on his feet a little as he tried valiantly to appear intimidating. John had to smirk at the effort. His smirk only widened when the man lifted a flick knife from his pocket.

"Really?" he said with a raise of an eyebrow, but the only response he got to that was a short nod of the head.

"Yeah. Get lost."

"Sure. Of course I will."

The addict never saw it coming. Stepping forward, John grabbed at his wrist, using the resulting surprise to grab the knife and wrench it from the man's grip and before the addict could speak or protest, he tightened his grip and twisted the his arm until he had it held tightly against his back. The man squirmed in pain.

"Gerroff!" he yelled, but John only smiled.

"Concentrating now are we? Where's Sherlock Holmes?"

He never heard the answer, for footsteps descended the flight of steps from the second floor and the tall, lean figure of Sherlock Holmes soon hoved into view.

However, on seeing his friend holding a drug addict in a vice-like grip, he only chuckled and stepped forward, holding his hands behind his back. He nodded once at the drug addict.

"Wiggins." John's mouth dropped open, only to drop wider when the man now known as Wiggins nodded straight back.

"Sherlock. Do you, er, mind…?"

"Not at all. John, you can let go now."

Without a word, John loosened his grip on Wiggins' wrist and slowly stepped back. Choosing to ignore his confusion, Sherlock instead stepped forward and held out a hand in greeting. Wiggins grinned and took it.

"Nice to see you again, Mr 'olmes."

"Okay," John said with a slight laugh. "Anyone want to explain to me what's going on?"

Sherlock flicked a grin at him. "John, I'd like you to meet our hacker: Bill Wiggins."

* * *

Once John had calmed down, the three of them had filed out of the den and down the street, choosing to settle in a nearby café, small in size and cheaply priced and most importantly of all, quiet.

Wiggins was the first to sit down at a table, having chosen one that sat in the furthest corner and both Sherlock and John soon followed his lead.

"So," Sherlock said as he coolly brought out a cigarette packet and took one, putting it between his lips. "Why the drug den?"

"Being an 'acker has gained me some notoriety among the governments of the world. The CIA have been tryin' to hire me for a while; they've been lookin' everywhere for me."

"Except the drug dens," Sherlock said with a tone of realisation. His mouth widened into a smile as he lit his cigarette, and Wiggins nodded.

"No-one thinks a drug addict could be a genius. I never used to do the stuff 'course, but I did sell it, on and off. Some people,"—at this, he raised an eyebrow at John—"can't differentiate between the two."

"So how do you do your work?" Sherlock asked after a moment, his tone languid as he leaned back in his chair. "I'm sure even drug addicts would notice a computer server or two around the place they get high."

Wiggins laughed and reached into his pocket of his hoodie, bringing out a smartphone and throwing it onto the table.

"An 'acker's blessing, those things. With the right programmin', I can do whatever I want wherever I want. Barely 'ave to be at home."

Sherlock narrowed his eyes at this, but his smile remained. "There's a job for you if you'd like it."

"What is it?"

"Robbery. It is in Las Vegas though, so that might prove a sticking point. Unless of course, you can deal with your little problem?"

Wiggins shrugged. "False ID always proves a good temporary deterrent. Should give me a couple of weeks; maybe a month. Just give me a couple of hours and I'll be fine."

Sherlock's smile widened and he slowly reached into his coat pocket to bring out a single plane ticket. It wasn't even on the table for five seconds before it had found its way into Wiggins' own pocket.

"I 'ope you've got an inside man already," Wiggins said as he picked up his phone and began to tap furiously at the keypad. "I'm gonna need him to scope out and outline the security of the place for me."

"Mike Stamford has recently suffered from a mid-life crisis and has unexpectedly quit his job," Sherlock explained. "He's said to be transferring to warmer climates."

Wiggins grinned, his eyes still on his phone. "Good work, Mr 'olmes—and Mr Watson. I'll see you both soon."

He pushed his chair out from the table and stood, swiftly flipping up his hood as he departed. John watched him leave, and couldn't help but feel a simultaneous feeling of amazement and disbelief.

To pull off such a complicated con as this, Sherlock was going to need people who were just about as crazy and as determined as him.

Luckily, it seemed that he was well on his way to finding them.

* * *

For the next few weeks, John's time was mostly spent at 221b, his and Sherlock's old base of operations. Days and nights merged into one another as the two men eagerly and vehemently discussed ideas, drew out plans, scribbled down lists and made phone calls.

Soon enough, they acquired the drivers for their plan. Gary and Billy, they were well known for both their superior knowledge of cars and their easily exchangeable devotion and loathing for one another, despite the fact they had been together for up to ten years. After marrying a year ago, they had claimed to be retired from their life of crime, but when Sherlock had contacted them and found that they were now spending their time in Derbyshire and terrifying tourists with a scam about some legend about a glowing dog, it took him only a matter of minutes before they had agreed.

The only time they did come across a slight hitch in their plan was when they contacted Greg Lestrade. A thief and explosions expert, Sherlock claimed him to be highly efficient—for a man who essentially blew things up for a living.

When they had contacted him, he'd immediately refused. "Got another job on," had been his reasoning.

That same job he'd claimed to be so busy on was the exact reason that John was now sat in the passenger side of Sherlock's car, dressed in a cheap and ill-fitting suit clipped to the breast pocket of his jacket. Sherlock drummed his fingers impatiently on the steering wheel, his eyes flicking briefly towards the clock.

"Two minutes past twelve," he murmured. "Any minute now."

John nodded slowly, keeping his gaze on the bank opposite them. "What do you think he'll use?"

Sherlock shrugged. "A simple G-4 mainliner, back wound, quick fuse with a drag just under 20 feet. But that's a guess. He might surprise me; but I doubt it."

John smirked but didn't ask how on Earth he had managed to guess Lestrade's methods so accurately. He had long ago given into the idea that he would never quite understand the way in which the man's mind worked.

Any further reflections he might have had were swiftly interrupted by the sound of alarms from the bank and the immediate shriek of sirens from the arriving police, who quickly swarmed at the entrance of the bank and moved into the building one by one. John sighed lightly and made to open the door.

"Park around the corner," he threw over his shoulder to Sherlock as he stepped out of the car, shut the door and hurried through the rain towards the scene, where Lestrade and his gang of fresh-faced thieves (all of whom wore the same expression of surprise) were being escorted quickly from the building. The gang were all swiftly packed into a police van whereas Lestrade was held back, pulled to the side so the DI—a short man with a heavy build and thick-framed glasses—could speak to him.

"Are you absolutely sure there isn't anything in that bank that my team should be aware of?"

"Wait a minute!" Lestrade said indignantly. "Are you accusing me of… booby-trapping?! I'm not a bloody amateur!"

The DI sighed. "It's a necessary precaution—"

"I wouldn't worry about necessary precautions," John said smoothly as he stepped forward. The DI frowned as Lestrade skilfully pretended never to have seen him before. John continued. "Lestrade here is correct. His style isn't to booby trap a building. Himself on the other hand…"

"H-Himself?" the DI asked dimly, his brow furrowed. "Are you sure?"

John nodded and resisted the temptation to laugh. It was amazing how much people trusted a stranger if he acted with enough authority.

"You have searched this man, correct?"

"Well, not yet – I was waiting for the Chief Superintendent to arrive – and he hasn't yet—"

John rolled his eyes and took another step forward before he took a hold of Lestrade's arm and turned him around, beginning to search him. The DI blustered.

"Sir, the Chief Superintendent—"

John aimed a withering look at the bespectacled man, stilling his words.

"I've just told you that this man poses a security risk and you're still worrying about the Chief Superintendent?"

"Well, I just—"

"You can stop worrying," John said quickly as he continued to search Lestrade, patting him down. "He's arrived."

The DI breathed a sigh of relief and let out a nervous chuckle. "Okay. Great. I'll get out of your hair."

As soon as the DI was out of earshot, Lestrade gave out a laugh.

"You'd make a hell of an actor," he said, glancing over his shoulder. John grinned as he undid the cuffs around Greg's wrists and slipped a small pile of explosives into his waiting palm.

"How quickly can you make something out of that?"

"Already done."

"How long?"

"30 seconds."

"Great." He turned his head as he grabbed at Greg's arm again and pulled him away from the police car to hurry him down the street, yelling over his shoulder. "EVERYBODY DOWN! EVERYBODY DOWN!"

Right on cue, an explosion sounded behind them.

Quickly, the two of them increased their speed and began to urgently run. On reaching a junction, John turned them around a corner and down a short alleyway into a back street, where Sherlock's car was waiting patiently. Not wasting time, he bundled Greg into the back seat before jumping into the passenger seat. With a squeal of tyres, Sherlock sped away.

In the back of the car, Greg chuckled as he sat up. "They weren't expecting that!" He looked to Sherlock, raising an eyebrow. "I don't suppose that job offer's still open?"

Sherlock smirked and reached into the glove box to bring out a plane ticket and he held it out to Greg, who only grinned wider.

"I have to admit," he said as he ruffled at his hair, "It'll be great to work with some real villains again."

"Oh, I wouldn't exactly call us villains, Lestrade," Sherlock drawled as he drew up to a set of traffic lights.

"Yeah? What would you call us?" Sherlock grinned and turned his head.

"Opportunists."


	4. The Acrobat and the Old Timer

Sherlock sighed and rolled his eyes for perhaps the hundredth time that evening. The stage in front of him—if you could call a circle of ribbon and some candles a stage—was well lit and two men, dressed entirely in black, brought out two long vertical poles and set them into the centre of the circle. Sherlock's gaze flicked towards the sign fixed to the wall behind the stage, where the words _Golden Dragon Chinese Circus_ were painted on in golden calligraphic writing.

His attention was brought back to the stage when a young woman and man—clearly brother and sister, according to the resemblance they shared—walked out, dressed in customised versions of traditional Chinese dress. They bowed as the crowd politely clapped. Sherlock however only huffed gently, and reminded himself never to follow John Watson's advice again. They needed someone skilled—not a performer only used to rehearsed and basic tricks. They needed someone with instinct; someone who would know what to do if anything went wrong. Performers did not do that. They had procedures to follow yes, but they did not have the impulse needed for this kind of job.

"Can't we get someone else?" he hissed as the male of the two climbed skilfully up one pole and threw his arms out in a pose of balance.

"There _is_ no-one else," John muttered, touching at the back of his neck as he continued to watch the show.

The male began to shimmy back down the pole and he bowed deeply as the rest of the audience clapped. The female stepped up. Like any other acrobat, she was small in height and slender. She smiled as she took a bow and swept her long dark hair into a secure bun at the base of her neck. Her smile fell away however, as she stepped up to the pole and was replaced by a steely look of concentration.

Sherlock arched an eyebrow and watched a little more intently as she tightly gripped her hands around the pole and, just as her brother had done, climbed quickly up it.

Unlike her brother however, she did not simply strike a pose and wait for applause; what she did so was take a heavy, steading breath and without missing another beat, she somersaulted from one pole to land straight onto the other. Yet before anyone could applaud, she flipped herself off the poles and landed perfectly on the floor to give a small bow.

The applause sounded again, but this time, Sherlock actually joined in.

* * *

After being made witness to a series of ever more impressive tricks from the brother and sister duo (though her brother was too technical and too focused on hitting the right marks to be at all interesting) for an hour, Sherlock's mind was more than made up, and after the show was over, he felt no qualms in stepping away from the departing crowds and he quickly slipped into the back of the theatre, where the corridor had been temporarily filled with racks of costumes for the duo.

In her dressing room, the female acrobat was already changed from her outlandish costume and was now sat in front of her mirror, dressed in a plain set of a shirt and jeans with her face bare of all traces of make-up.

Sherlock knocked quietly on the door, but that was more than enough to cause her to jump around in fear, clutching at her chest. On seeing Sherlock stood there, she quietened and bowed her head once.

"Soo Lin?" he asked, gesturing to the name on the door. She nodded, and he smiled, proffering a hand to her.

"My name is Sherlock Holmes."

"Do – you mind I don't, Mr Holmes?" she said quietly, her gaze flicking towards his outstretched hand. Sherlock immediately let it drop back to his side. There was something wrong with this picture; she was too afraid to be termed merely shy.

"I have a job offer for you, if you'd like to hear it."

Soo Lin shook her head. "I can't accept."

Sherlock scanned her for a moment. She appeared perfect on the surface—clean hair, freshly pressed clothes, neatly organised work surface—but a tendency to scare easily along with the chewed nails and the habit of never looking someone in the eyes for more than a second at least spoke not just of anxiety, but also of a past or youth that would rather be forgotten.

Folding his arms behind his back, he tried again. "If you do this, Soo Lin, you will have more than enough money to stop performing tricks every night. Perhaps you could even escape what it is you're running from."

For a long moment, there was nothing but silence between the two until a smile twitched at the edges of Soo Lin's mouth and she slowly brought up her gaze to meet with his.

"You believe so, Mr Holmes?"

He decided to take that as what it was meant to be: a yes.

* * *

"She's coming then?" John asked as Sherlock stepped out of the building's entrance. Shoving on his gloves as they briskly walked through the cool evening air, Sherlock shrugged.

"Poor immigrant acrobat forced to make tuppence with a Chinese circus after escaping an abusive childhood? Of course she's coming." He pressed his palms together in thought. "We do still need Mrs Hudson though."

"She's retired," John said as the two of them moved to cross the road. "Moved to Wimbledon a couple of years ago."

"Oh. I wondered why she wasn't at Baker Street. Where could I find her?"

John shrugged. "Last I heard, she's become rather fond of the dogs."

* * *

The familiar sound of dogs barking and spectators chatting echoed around the walls of Wimbledon Stadium. In the stands overlooking the track, Martha Hudson watched as the greyhound lined up, one by one, at their starting points and clucked a little in thought. Her companion—a very nice elderly man who dressed elegantly and spoke well, but lacked in manners—hummed and tapped his fingers against the paper in his hand before he gave out a light sigh and looked to her.

"Well, Apollo looks like a good candidate to win. How about that?"

Martha smiled. "Sounds lovely."

"Wonderful," her companion said jovially, "but I think I just have to pop to the loo—would you…?"

"Oh, don't worry about that!" Martha said, waving a hand to usher her companion away. "I'll make the bet for you."

Almost as soon as her companion had stood and had begun to weave through the stands and the spectators, a figure approached where she sat, dressed sleekly in a dark suit and settled into the chair beside her. Martha raised an eyebrow at her protégé, and smiled. He gave a single nod.

"Enjoying retirement then?"

"I have a nice little flat, and I play bridge on Sundays."

"But it's not satisfactory."

"Of course it isn't." Martha's tone was bright, as if she were discussing the weather and not her discontent with retirement.

Around them, the other spectators began to settle down for the beginning of the race. Sherlock watched as the starting horn sounded and at the gates immediately flung themselves open and the greyhounds flew from their starting points, panting and growling as they pounded their way around the sandy track.

Disinterested, he leaned back into his chair and looked back to Martha.

"John told me you retired because of ulcers?"

"Oh, they're all cleared up. Only my hip gives me any bother now," Martha said and she tapped lightly on her right side to emphasise her point. Sherlock briefly raised his eyebrows in an attempt at sympathy before he pointed to the track.

"Which one did you bet on?"

"I don't make bets," Martha admitted with a small shrug. "But coming here's better than sitting inside all day."

"Yes, well—you're never supposed to make a bet you can't win." Martha aimed a warning look at him.

"Don't repeat my words back to me Sherlock Holmes. My hip may be bad, but my memory is as good as anything."

To this, Sherlock said nothing but he instead retrieved a rectangular white envelope from his jacket pocket and dropped it onto Martha's empty lap. He knew there was little more to say in regards to his offer. Martha Hudson was after all, the woman who had trained him in the art of the con. True to form, she didn't ask any questions but only smiled and picked the envelope up to briefly examine it. Her eyes brightened.

"I wondered why you looked so happy," she said as she opened the envelope to reveal a plane ticket stuffed inside.

"By the way," Sherlock said, "that companion of yours—just like everyone else these days, he's married."

"He's also a millionaire and easily gullible," Martha murmured in reply as she drew a large, leather men's wallet from her side. She arched an eyebrow at him. "I may be an old workhorse, but there's life in me yet."

Sherlock grinned. "Clearly. I'll see you in Las Vegas."

Armed with this knowledge, he proceeded to swiftly leave the stadium and Mrs Hudson. Ten was just enough to be able to competently pull off the job and the plan that he had in mind.

Of course, this wasn't a job that could be done competently done; it was one that had to be done skilfully.

Ten just wasn't enough, he mused as he exited the stadium to the sounds of disappointed groaning from the people who had lost and cheers from the people who had won. No, he needed more. Just one more, of course.

He cracked a grin. Yes. Eleven would be just about perfect.


End file.
